He whistled "Whistle While You Work" while he padded down the hall in bare feet. Everyone in the city was whistling the same tune; it was in the air. In the men's room he wiped himself, pinched the fat around his waist, shined a smile at the mirror to check his teeth. He didn't mind the interruption. In fact, the longer the better. His penis hung loose but not defeated, he thought.

The office lights were still low when he returned and he moved cautiously between tables and chairs to preserve his shins and whispered her name, almost cooing. When the lights suddenly went up, he found himself in the company of two men in coveralls, work boots and surgical gloves. Except for the gloves, the visitors looked like a pair of auto mechanics. A grocery bag stood on the coffee table and for a second he thought he might have strayed into the wrong office, but there was the comfortable sofa with the girl's imprint still on it. His clothes lay on the desk by a scarf of Maya's, but she was gone.

"Excuse me."

"Don't get dressed."

"Sit down."

The other man inserted a chair in back of Ali's knees. It was sit or fall.

Ali remained calm. This was an extortion racket and these two were the heavies. They seemed cast from the same rough mold, the difference being a dent here or there. With their flat voices and deep-set eyes, they played their roles convincingly.

"You've caught me fair and square. There is no need for further dramatics. How much are you asking?"

One man showed Ali a poster with Maya's face.

"Is this the girl?"

"Yes. See, whatever you want to know I will freely tell you." Ali believed it was important to establish a positive atmosphere while not exhibiting too much curiosity. He had been robbed in the kiosk half a dozen times and he had learned that panic was everyone's enemy. These two seemed professional, which was reassuring. Description-wise, both had nondescript hair, thin lips, no smile and the kind of beard that looked like a blue mask. Rather than ask them their names, he labeled the slightly larger man "Mr. Big" and the slightly thinner man "Mr. Little."

So it was Mr. Little who asked, "Where is she?"

"I have no idea. Does it matter? She's done her bit."

Mr. Big picked up the scarf and lifted it to his nose.

Ali nodded. "Yes, a delicious smell. She's a little siren. She was here only a minute ago, but now she's gone. That's God's truth."

He expected them to ask where to. Instead, they poked around the office and checked out the contents of the minibar. Felt the warm sofa.

Ali said, "I expected to see her when I returned from the men's, not you gentlemen."

"How about the baby?" Mr. Little moved behind Ali.

Ali had to twist in his chair. "She never mentioned a baby."

"How were her tits?"

"I observed that they were full like a nursing mother's. But she never mentioned a baby."

"Arms back."

"I am feeling somewhat exposed. Do you mind if I get dressed first?"

"Not yet."

"This is really not necessary."

Ali allowed himself to be handcuffed around the back of the chair. He was still ready to deal.

"She was here a minute ago, but you have no idea where she's headed?"

"With Yegor, obviously. May I get dressed now? This is no way to negotiate."

"Who's negotiating?"

The silence that followed was unnerving.

"This is not extortion?"

"Do we look like extortionists?"

No, Ali thought. He wished they did.

Mr. Big said, "If Yegor was out of the picture, where would she go?"

"I truly wish I could help you." Ali was calm. He'd been beaten by Russians before and suffered broken ribs just for walking down the street. They would find out that he could take punishment.

"From the kiosk you see everything, don't you?"

"No one can keep track of everything. People come and go all the time. It's Three Stations."

Mr. Little and Mr. Big communicated with a look that made Ali suck up his testicles.

"As I said before, I am not totally without funds. If you give me a figure to start with…" Ali's voice died off as Mr. Little took a box of see-through food wrap from the shopping bag and pulled off the opening strip. He fed plastic wrap through a slot in the lid, which he tucked next to a strip of saw-toothed metal. Where was the food? Ali wondered.

"Have you been wrapped before?" Mr. Big asked.

"Wrapped?"

"I'll take that as a no. It's simple. I am going to ask you where to find this girl and her baby. If you give us no answer or a wrong answer, we will wrap your head."

These were all scare tactics, Ali thought. Nobody did such things.

"We'll demonstrate. Are you claustrophobic?"

"No, sir."

"We'll see."

It took two people, one to hold the first turn of food wrap and another to circle with the box and unreel more. The tape was clear plastic. Ali could see through it and witness the whole operation in the reflection of the office window. Air was totally cut off. He nodded to indicate he got the idea but they continued to wrap until he was covered from his neck to the top of his head.

"It's important not to panic," said Mr. Little. "The faster your heart rate the faster you use up oxygen."

The wrap got tighter and molded itself to Ali's face. He wanted to protest that this was more than a demonstration, but his mouth was wrapped and muffled. In the reflection of the window he wore a silver helmet and rocked from side to side.

"Ali, relax! You have five minutes to go."

Five minutes? They misjudged! They must have thought they'd leave a little air! No, no, no, no! He rocked hard enough to lift himself and the chair clear of the floor. Banged his chin against his chest. Felt his lungs and chest begin to cave, a roar rise up in his ears and his vision go dark.

When Ali was conscious again, he was still handcuffed to the chair but the plastic wrap had been removed, rolled into a ball and tossed into a wastebasket.

"Disposable," said Mr. Little.

Mr. Big asked, "Who needs the rack or the Spanish Inquisition when there's a roll of food wrap in the kitchen?" It was a philosophical proposition, not a question.

"Would you like some vodka?" Mr. Little poured vodka into Ali as if he were filling a gas tank. Ali drank in gulps, eager to be stunned.

"Back to business," said Mr. Little. "Where did the girl go?"

"Please, I have a family, small children and aged parents in Pakistan who have no other means of support."

"You putrid shit. What were you doing with your little whore, writing letters home?"

"I was weak. I was tempted and fell."

"Where would the girl go?"

"I swear I don't know."

"Last chance."

"Please."

Mr. Big ripped off a section of plastic wrap and at its touch to Ali's cheek, he jumped, chair and all.

"Genius. Everybody calls him Genius but his real name is Zhenya. I don't know his last name but he is often in the company of a prosecutor's investigator, Renko."

"Where?"

"The boy is always around Three Stations. You can't miss him; he hustles chess in the waiting rooms. I'll point him out to you. You don't need to wrap me anymore."

"Wrap you? Like what, a leftover piece of cheese? You must think we're fucking barbarians."

"No, not really but… I didn't know what to think."

Mr. Big slapped Ali on the back. "You should have seen your face. Come on. We'll take you down in the service elevator."

Ali laughed. He was unsteady after the handcuffs were removed and he dressed clumsily because of the vodka. And because when the elevator came he had to step over Yegor's body. The screw-off pool-cue butt that had been Yegor's scepter and cudgel was stuffed into his mouth. Ali couldn't stop laughing.